More, more . . .

Isn’t putting a hungry baby to bed without food one of the saddest things ever?  The nurse said only clear liquids for the first twenty-four hours, so we tried to give her as much jello as she would tolerate.  But she walked around the kitchen pointing at any food item or empty bottle she could find, all the while whimpering and doing the baby sign for “more.”

Of course, Neal had it even worse than I since he let me sleep right through her 5:30 am wake-up when she once again went searching through the kitchen looking for “more” food.

From here (no, Addison didn’t suddenly grow a whole lot of dark hair)

But we consider ourselves amply blessed that our little one has not been sick very often and it has always passed quickly, including this time — she’s on the mend, on to the BRAT diet, and I’m back to my thesis.

Clean ALL the things!

After I finished my paper last Tuesday, I took a bit more inspiration from this comic and did this:

It had to be done really.  Household cleanliness is definitely one of the things that has suffered with the great-thesis-push-of-2011.  It was getting to the point that even I was uncomfortable with Addison eating off the floor.  In case you don’t know, that’s like really, really dirty.

So Wednesday, I deep cleaned the kitchen counters/stove/sink and the bathroom mirror and counter.  If that doesn’t sound like a nearly all-day project, then clearly, you’re not thinking filthy enough.  By the time we hit 3:00, I was at this stage:

But I pressed on and spent Thursday tackling one of the most massive piles of laundry ever seen in these parts:

By Friday, I was about ready to pass out, but the kitchen floor was still crying out for help: Get these sticky mounds of hardened jam off me! (I told you, things had gotten bad.)  I got down on my hands and knees with a scrub brush and about 30 rags and made that floor sparkle.  [By the way, it seems there may be two types of people in this world: those who think that standing upright and mopping will do the job and those who don't.  I was raised by the second type -- if your knees and knuckles aren't scraped up by the end, you aren't doing it right!  This has forever been a source of conflict in Neal's and my marriage.]  But man, look at that floor:

And the rest:

The bathroom floor and shower were still waiting for some attention, but come Saturday, it was time to get back to my thesis work.  I was at the lab until 11:00 pm . . . on a Saturday . . . on Memorial Day weekend.  Needless to say, campus was absolutely deserted.  I tend to like things quiet when I’m on campus, but it was a little too quiet, even for me — I definitely started imagining someone was going to jump out of the shadows and accost me at any moment.  But I made a lot of progress and had a breakthrough in my qualitative data analysis.  No doubt I’ll explain more about that later, but for now, I’m on a deadline.  The goal is to have a completed draft of my thesis in one week.  I’m going to be basically done with my thesis in seven. more. days.*  Git ‘er done.

*I may have to revise that deadline . . . sadly, little Addison got sick today and changing 17 dirty diapers and feeding her clear liquids kind of cut into my work time.  Oh, but she actually cuddled on my lap for almost ten minutes at one time, so illness definitely has its upside!

Where’s my trophy?

I just finished a solid draft of my latest paper.  Three days before the deadline.  I’m not gonna lie, I’m feeling pretty freaking pleased with myself.  So pleased that I want one of these:

From this beyond brilliant post about adulthood (or lack thereof)

Of course, they don’t give out trophies for accomplishing self-imposed goals.  Apparently, they are supposed to be their own reward.  But that seems lame, so I’m treating myself to Disneyworld in November as my reward.

Overhead around the house . . .

This:

Me: I’m leaving. I came in to tell you something sweet and you just ruined it with a Derrida reference.

Neal: Couldn’t you have predicted that?

And this:

Nothing gets me through paper-writing like Captain EO!

Dilemmas, dilemmas

First off, I was taught to spell the word “dileMNa.”  Some people have told me that I was simply misspelling that word for years, but since I’m a lot like this lady, a compulsive dictionary-checker who never writes a word I’m not certain I know how to spell, that is very unlikely.  And so I’m thankful to Neal’s sister Robin, a fellow “dilemna”-speller, for pointing out that there are many of us, now able to commiserate via the internet!  But rest assured that I’ve adapted to the dileMMa spelling, so that’s not one of my dilemmas at the moment.

The dilemma I am facing now is of the thesis-variety.  I’ve been contemplating whether I even have the energy to explain.  After about four days of trying, I have concluded that indeed I do not have the energy to explain my thesis dilemma.  It involves the (often unnecessary) split between qualitative and quantitative researchers (I consider myself a mixed methods researcher, but my philosophy of science is definitely more aligned with qualitative researchers) and the fact that qualitative data analysis is maybe 200 times more time-consuming than quantitative data analysis.

The other dilemma is how much I’ve been itching for some travel lately.  I am contemplating all sorts of wild trips, including the ca-rrrrazy cross-country roady I first discussed here.  Since travel is not easy for me physically, I thought my desires would kind of recede as I got older.  But in almost two years, I’ve only been to three states (CA, NV, and CO) — and I can tell from the twitch I’ve developed whenever I use Google Maps, that just isn’t enough.  But I do have a plan . . . I always have a plan!  If I can get a paper finished and submitted in 7 days, then I will have a reason to go to a conference in Florida later this year (and Disneyworld, of course).  Hopefully I can swing by another state or two!  Ready, go!

Also, in my opinion,  it really wouldn’t be the worst thing if tomorrow set off the beginning of the end of the world.  But just in case, you better check out these fantastic pictures first . . .

This is just a teaser . . . you know you wanna see the rest.

In case you were wondering, I hate it when the doctor asks me to “rate my pain”

From here

Guest post: Surprise encounter, by Neal

Neal and I decided that every year we would each write a letter to our little girl.  Just before her birth, check.  First birthday, check, though delayed.  Two years in a row, that’s a pretty decent start.  While mine this year was an actual letter, part of which I posted yesterday, Neal wrote more of a personal essay — which makes sense since he was taking a personal essay writing class this semester.  But I declared that it counted (and that he should let me post it, despite the fact that he still deems it a “B-” essay with plans for revision) because one day I know Addison will love to read something so very authentically Neal, especially since she gets to sneak in as the surprise center of attention.

I’m sitting on the back pew, waiting the 15 minutes before church starts. My wife is next to me. She wants me to put my arm around her. I can tell, because she has just said “put your arm around me.” I’m resistant. I’m currently in my favorite listening posture, with my body slouched, and my legs extended, crossed at the ankles. My shoulders, more than my back, contact the hard wooden backrest. My arms are also crossed in front of me. I’m comfortable. Yet I know there’s a problem, completely unrelated to the callousness of a husband who will not extend his arm and become a cushion. My bearing, simply put, does not signal respect or reverence; I muse idly about this, considering the inconsistency of arriving early to church only to act ready to leave. In college, I was once involved in a conflict resolution training that taught me that my favorite body language indicates being “closed off” and unengaged, while good posture and even leaning forward indicate being open and interested. Forming Xs with body parts is a no-no. And yet, when I’m uncomfortable, I don’t listen very well. I’m pretty sure that my favorite posture extends the amount of time I can sit and be talked at by a factor of 2, maybe 3. Which means that, given ideal circumstances, I’ll be able to force my attention on the distant speaker for 6, maybe 9 minutes. Which means I might actually get close to listening to a talk all the way through. Does recognizing my problem in any way mitigate it? I wonder if I would sit any differently if a larger-than-life crucified God were staring me down . . . but such gruesomely aggressive displays are never to be found in my church, and I am vaguely glad of the fact.

I’m hoping there will be good speakers today . . . speakers who recognize nuance and difficulty in living fragile, messy everyday life according to perfected principles. There’s nothing that chloroforms my mind like a talk that spouts easy definitions or explanations without any awareness that definitions are by nature recursive, and language in general a failing attempt to put into words things that transcend them. Barring a sermon given by Derrida or Foucault (and really, I’ve got to admit they’d probably bore me too), I often appreciate a speaker who uses a preposterous extended metaphor, something like “God sends blessings to the faithful much like Wal-Mart ships inventory to keep shelves perpetually stocked,” or “The comfort of the Holy Ghost is a lot like a pair of old running shoes . . . ” or even that wonderful blend of potty humor and self-righteousness, “If there was just a little poop in the brownie, would you still eat it?” Whether or not the talk is insightful or insipid, conceits such as these will likely get me leaning forward, on the edge of my seat even. Are they really going to try to carry this one through to the end? Or will they drop it when things get messy? My comfort be damned! This might be entertaining.

My wife digs her elbow into my ribs. 13 minutes to go. She has our daughter, Addison, sitting quietly on her lap, a rare occurrence. If I don’t get my arm around her fast, I’m in trouble. I’ll be the destroyer of the perfect moment. I sigh, and she rolls her eyes as I scoot back up, and place my arm behind her across the bench top. I’d like to just let my hand dangle, but instead I cup it around her shoulder, and give a squeeze. See, it says, I’m being good.

My wife makes the most of this, and leans contentedly into me. To keep from being toppled over, I have to stretch my leg out to the side and plant it firmly to get some leverage as I push against her. In high school I weighed in at a husky 135 pounds for my 5 foot 8 inch frame (barely avoiding the designation “underweight,” which I have now achieved), but I’ve dropped a pound or two every year since then, and that was 12 years ago. A sedentary life makes most people even more soft and cuddly . . . but it has just made me skeletal. Sometimes I hold up my hands and think, Damn, these are bony. I should lift weights or something. I should get some protein powder. I think about whether I should just let myself go limp, and allow us all to tumble sideways in a heap. It’s a fun daydream as I imagine what the young couple next to us would do, especially if I didn’t get up, but just lay there across the guy’s lap, slowly sliding to the floor. I smile to myself. My wife nuzzles her head into the crook of my neck. She probably thinks I’m enjoying being close, and that’s okay.

Twelve minutes to go. In about thirty seconds, I’ll have repositioned myself again, this time probably leaning forward, my elbows on my knees. If the all-X’s slouch is my home, the forward-hunch is my summer cottage. Sometimes you just need to get away. But it’s always nice to come home. I spend a lot of time traveling between the two, as evidenced by the shiny spot on the seat of my pants. I try to let my wife enjoy her moment, but the count is rapidly ticking down for my anxious body-clock.

I have a hard time sitting still. It’s not as though I have ADD or anything, although that would be a convenient excuse. I just don’t like sitting in one position. My back starts to hurt. Or my shoulders get tight. Or I get an itch right under my thigh that would look bad if I scratched it, which means I have to try to rub back and forth unobtrusively on the padded seat. Basically, I think that my body might be part shark. If sharks stop swimming, they die, or so I’ve heard. Something to do with water flowing past their gills, I think. I don’t have gills, but there’s something similar that happens in my body that I swear I have no control over. If I sit still too long, my brain sends an emergency signal to some part of my body that screams Move – quick! – or you’ll die! Sometimes I suddenly realize that the waistband of my pants has hiked way too far up, and it’s sitting in an awkward spot, definitely not where it’s supposed to be. Or I realize that my tie is too tight . . . in fact, it may be my shirt neck that is too tight – strangling me almost! Or my shoes – they’re cramping my toes. Did they suddenly somehow shrink a size? If I go too long without doing something, without repositioning myself and redirecting my thoughts, I start to break out in a sweat.

My wife thinks I’m a big baby. Especially at night, when I’m supposed to be cuddling her. Addison is in bed, and the daily tasks are either done or given up on, and she wants me to lie in bed curled around her, a loving husband giving his wife the physical intimacy she needs to drift to sleep exhausted, but happy. I do my best – body against body, whispering sweetly in her ear, “nothing, nothing, nothing . . . .” It lasts for about a minute, and I start to fidget. My hands get clammy. My fingernails suddenly feel as though they are too close to the skin underneath. And the underarm! Circulation slows, as my wife’s beautiful body crumples the arterial walls, like a heavy foot on a hose. And then my attention goes to my back. Did one of my vertebrae, perhaps L1 or L2, just do a little shimmy? Did it shriek, “Move, you idiot! Move or die!” I’m weak. I give in to little L2. I groan and turn the other way. Sweet relief! I curl into a ball and press my back up against her, sure that she’ll understand I’m still being close, that my dorsal side is loving her just as much as my ventral side was before. I nuzzle her a little with the bony protrusions of my spine. In the morning, she’ll complain with bags under her eyes that I kept pushing her out of bed with my back. And that when it wasn’t my back, it was my knees. That I wouldn’t stop turning over. And then we’ll decide, once again, to sleep in separate beds.

Ten minutes to go. Our idyllic family embrace is a thing of the past. My wife has leaned away to chat with another couple, whom I ignore. I don’t really know them, while my wife seems to know everyone. She waves or smiles to most of the people who walk into the meeting room. I’m watching Addison crawl towards an electrical socket. I’ll go rescue her before she gets there; I estimate I have maybe ten seconds. Addison is in a dress, and her normal crawling motion isn’t working, and she’s frustrated. Her knees hold down the dress fabric, and she keeps face-planting as she tries to move forward. She glances back at me, Are you going to help me or what, Dad? I shrug my shoulders and spread my hands, palms up, as if to say What do you want me to do? Disgusted, she continues her journey, now resorting to a spider-walk on her hands and feet, her bum raised high in the air. About a half second before Addison’s delicate little finger enters the socket hole, I swoop her up into my arms. Indifferent to the harsh realities of gravity, she tries to jump. When she realizes I won’t let go, she begins swatting my face repeatedly, making an ear-piercing sound like a little howler monkey.

Nine minutes to go. We’re back in our seats, and Addison is standing on my lap, doing squats. As churchgoers walk into the meeting room, Addison beams up at them. If they walk by without noticing, I’m both relieved and offended, the former for my own sake, the latter for hers. What, you’re so busy feeling the spirit you can’t smile at a baby? I believe I’m being objective when I say she’s in the 95th percentile for cuteness. Just the other day, while my wife and I were out with Addison, we bumped into a friend with his daughter who is just a few months younger. I’ve since been told that I’m never allowed to say such things, but I determined after a careful examination that his little girl is cuter than ours, by at least a percentage point or two. I announced it to all present. My wife didn’t appreciate the comment, but why do we feel like we have to lie about that kind of thing? In any event, little Addison is pretty far up there, and she knows it. I pass her to her mother so I can enjoy the attention she gets without having to engage it directly.

I like our spot at the back of the room. It’s worth coming to church early in order to claim it, as I’m not the only one with this preference. It is ironic that such dedication is required to secure a spot on what I deem the slacker row. My wife, the overachiever in the family, prefers sitting closer, which again is ironically where we end up when we arrive too late to snag the better seats.

Seven minutes to go. A gunfighter, when choosing a place to sit, never leaves his back to the door. Am I a gunfighter? Not in real life, I suppose (although I did play a game in my head last Sunday that went a little bit like this: the Bishop is being held hostage by the guest speaker. I’ve got a single bullet in my Winchester. Do I take a shot from the back of the room? Or do I low crawl behind the pews until I can achieve a more likely kill shot, knowing the dude’s got an itchy trigger finger? And what if my gun jams? [I just can’t seem to get around to cleaning it] Could I make a knife throw from this distance?). But it still seems a good rule of thumb to have a view of all entrances and exits. Don’t get shot in the back, literally or figuratively. Be in a position to observe. Be ready to make an escape. Sitting at the front of the room in the congregation is like standing on the precipice of a cliff as though preparing for a back dive, facing away from the empty vastness, facing away from the thing that could kill you.

Six minutes to go. On the stand at the front of the room, the Bishop sits. We both survey the flock, he from the front, a point of attention and respect, and I from the back, his secret, unacknowledged counterpart. I see the defenseless backs of the congregation, he the guarded fronts. I feel it is almost my duty to imagine what may be hidden under the surface, what might be deflected by an intentional expression, but which cannot be hidden from the unanticipated eye (mine) directed from the most unexpected angle. The toddler that just dropped his mother’s phone into the purse of her neighbor. Should I tell her? Or just enjoy the ensuing confusion? The man whose clothes are a wrinkled mess, and his wife next to him, her clothing perfect and starched, and not a hair out of place. Which of these considered sleeping in? Which hoped to be looked at? The couple who each have mussed hair, but definitely not bed-head. What were they doing? Celebrating the Sabbath? As of yet, I’ve not been asked to share my insights or suspicions with anyone. Which is probably just as well; my thoughts tend to get rambling and involve gunslingers or sharks.

I’ve heard some people say it’s easier to pay attention in the front, but I don’t buy it. The main difference is that from the front, one is watched, and being watched lends an uncomfortable undercurrent of paranoia coursing beneath any diverging thought. Did they see my head dip in fatigue? Do I still have Gerber squash in my hair? Did I just drool? From the back of the room, the mind can wander (if wander it must) in comfort, because all eyes are directed away, and the doors are in sight. And if my head droops a little, I’m too far in the back for it to be a slap in the face for the speaker. Or so I tell myself.

Five minutes to go, and my eyes start looking for escape. I am thinking about climbing things. When one’s attention wanders, or I suppose that I should just say that when my attention wanders, lest I unfairly implicate others in frivolous fantasy-making, it inclines towards looking at spaces in ways that they were not intended to be used; and in particular, I imagine how I would enter and exit spaces in a variety of unlikely scenarios:

1. I am a secret agent and all of the traditional exits are blocked.
2. The doors are holding back a flood of water that will soon fill the meeting space.
3. There are snakes or Tyrannosaurs coming towards me very fast, and, again, there is no possibility of leaving through the doorway. (Methods for avoiding either creature would differ greatly, but they’re both reptiles, so I’ve lumped them together.)

The focus of my attention is usually someplace near the ceiling . . . an air duct or an inaccessible window. And the task is to figure out how one would get there. Certainly leaping off of pews would be involved, as would using things like light switches and thermostat boxes as handholds and footholds. Pendulous light fixtures are a no-brainer.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I really do try to pay attention. Most of the time. Well, a lot of times, anyway. But even after the infrequent sermon that has my eyes welling with tears — likely something about fathers and sons (or since Addison was born, daughters) — my brain goes to its safe, happy place for a breather.

The speakers behind the pulpit settle in to place. I take a deep breath and prepare for the plunge. Today, I tell myself, today I will get something out of this. Today I will invite something in. Today I will grow up a little, and not seek a distraction everywhere I look. Three seconds to go. Two. One.

I’ve made efforts over the last six years to invest more sincerely in religious experience. When my wife met me (six years ago) I was not much of a church-goer. On the occasions that I did attend a service, it was more to observe pageantry and practice mockery than to connect with any higher power. I’m a product of post-modernity, and if there is anything I have learned in my studies it is that everything can be broken apart and that there are no absolute foundations to stand on. There is not a lot of room for faith in such a world.

And then, I met my wife. Our love story could be the subject of another essay, but suffice it to say that something changed for me when I met her. I realized there was space in my heart for things larger than myself. I realized that there are things bigger than my own preferences and comforts, bigger even than my own easy skepticisms and anti-establishment adolescent cynicisms. And now we have a baby girl — or hardly a baby, now, because today she strung eight steps together to make her longest trek ever. She toddled. I have a toddler. On her first birthday, February 16th, I have a toddler, a little girl who walked eight steps, the farthest she has ever walked, to get to me. With each one of those steps, with the fresh and unjaded look of excitement on this beautiful girl’s face, I am reminded why I’m now a churchgoer. Why faith matters. Why there exists something tantalizingly indescribable and yet wholesomely undeniable behind the pageantry and tomfoolery, something that gets at things that go beyond words or definitions, something that I may never understand but that can run a sudden charge of hopeful electricity through me.

And so I sit in pews, feeling talked at, sometimes enjoying my childish little fantasies, sometimes fighting them off. And I’ll continue to sit in these pews, not because the meetings are enthralling, and not because I even hear half of what’s being said, but because I hear anything at all. Despite my X’s, despite my post-modern fidgeting and the thread-bare seat of my pants, I know I’m here for a reason. In between moments of my frivolous escapism, my mind’s self-focused efforts to evade the clichéd and uninteresting of pulpit-talk, sometimes something much bigger floors me, something completely unexpected. I wonder if it was there all along while I was swinging from the light fixtures. As I pace the back row with my fussy daughter bouncing on my shoulder, I’m only half-listening. And then, in a moment I can’t pinpoint, a simple story or scripture about family, about falling, about redemption breaks through the wild six-shooting, snakes hissing, wall climbing. I’m whole, with no need for the jokes, diversions, or criticisms. My daughter cranes her neck and looks at me curiously as my tears splash onto her face. In a few minutes I may be eyeing the ventilation ducts again, and she may be going for the electrical socket, but right now my daughter is all wide eyes and seeing something new. So am I.

Dearest Addison,

I’m a little late for your first birthday.  But in my defense, I’ve been busy.  Really, really busy.  You’ve been busy too.  Really, really busy.  You’re one busy girl.  No joke.  You know you have a busy, energetic kid when other parents of toddlers comment on it!  Every time I take you to storytime at the library, you’re a social butterfly. You float from person-to-person, especially kids.  You wave (you have the most adorable, coy, little finger-wave).  You smile. You try to climb into their strollers.  You steal their books.  You go fishing in their bags.  You grab their sippy cups.  And you run away from me when I come to track you down.  The other parents watch in awe at this little girl (because you’re still a shorty) that still looks a baby (because you still have very little hair — blame me for that) but runs like a track star.  It is tiring for a sickie like me.

But oh goodness, you are fun.  F-U-N!  Everyone thinks so.  People comment everywhere we go about how friendly, how good-natured, how adorable, and what a tease you are!  Just this afternoon, we were upstairs visiting Grandma and Grandpa (you love to run around upstairs, by the way, pretending like you are going to get into things you aren’t supposed to — Grandma’s china, anyone? — until I come chasing after you) when this happened: you were running at full speed toward Grandpa’s chair when you stopped suddenly and began to back up.  But you didn’t turn around and run the other way, you just started running BACKWARDS.  It only lasted for a few seconds before you fell on your big-diapered bum.  And we all laughed.  And you saw that we were laughing at you and started to laugh in response; you gave these big, loud guffaws every time you could see that we were laughing at you.  You love to tease.  You love to make people laugh.  And you LOVE to be the center of attention.

I worry sometimes that I won’t be the kind of mom that you want or need.  I just don’t have the stamina for all that running around.  When people ask me about it, I say, “I’m a knowledge worker, not a heavy lifter.  And parenting at this stage feels a lot like heavy lifting.”  And so you go to a babysitter for a few hours everyday.  I miss you when you’re gone; I wish that I could have you with me all the time — I want to see every face you make, every new thing you learn.  But I know that I can’t have you with me all the time.  CAN. NOT.  For reals.  My body just wasn’t built for this stage of your life.  I try not to worry about it too much . . . because my body carried you and nursed you and helped you develop into this healthy-as-a-horse, running-so-hard-you-catch-air-when-you-fall girl that you are.  And because I know I’ve got tricks up my sleeve for the day you can sit still for more than three seconds at a time.  Part of me wants that day to come sooner rather than later, but the other part of me (it wins out every time) wants to keep watching you run like the little 15-month-old maniac that you are forever.  As long as daddy’s there to chase after you.

Love to my dearest baby girl,
Ma-ma-ma-ma (that’s how you say it, unless you are telling me to come here, when it is just a mildly-annoyed “ma”)

By special request . . .

Although it took a while for Neal to invest in reading my blog — eight months, actually, before he even read one post — it has now been many months since I made my way on to his bookmarks toolbar.  And in that time, I’ve been surprised to find that he’s become quite an avid reader.  I guess I mentioned before that he now appears to feel like something of a guardian of my blog: “No one is commenting on that topic.”  ”You should write a post about . . . ”  These days it’s not uncommon to be in the middle of a conversation when he finds something I’ve said arguable or ridiculous, and he instructs me to write a post about it so others can weigh in.  That’s how much Neal values you, dear readers.  You (collectively) are like the third party in our marriage . . . or fourth, if you think our marriage counselor merits the three-spot.  Ha!

So here’s the next burning question for you, dear marriage refs, spurred by Neal’s question tonight about why I haven’t put my hair in pigtails in a long time like I often did while we were dating.  I responded, “Well, I’m so busy now.”  He busted out laughing, until he realized that I was serious.  ”Oh yeah, cause it’s two ponytails instead of one, that’s tough,” he scoffed.  But I mean, two is more than one, that’s basic math right there, and thus it probably takes at least twice as long to do pigtails as a ponytail.  But beyond that, it’s the part . . . obviously, the part is tricky and takes time.  Men don’t get that, right?

Of course, that led into a conversation about how much time I take to get ready.  Because if I put my hair in a ponytail everyday and that takes me about three seconds, then the additional pigtail investment should be negligible, he thinks.  So the questions are these:

1. Am I right that pigtails look deceptively simple?  Getting a good part is not easy, right?
2. How long do you take to get ready for the day?

Neal thanks you in advance.

Thesis Thursday: Finish prospectus, check

I just sent it to my advisor.  I don’t think I even have the will to type anything else.  But can I get a big woot woot?!